A new beginning
by girlwhowaited46
Summary: John asks how Sherlock would feel about having another person staying in the flat. The person is John's niece; a fourteen year old "considered to be a genius," as Sherlock thinks. While she stays in the flat for a numerous amount of days, her dark past is slowly revealed to Sherlock... Note: I created John's niece and I hope you guys will like her. :)
1. Chapter 1

With bags packed, and the airplane ticket in her pocket, the auburn-haired girl ran down stairs. She didn't have much possessions, being an orphan. Just paint, her favorite paint-brushes, clothes, and a couple of books, lied within the suitcase. She walked out of her current home; a catholic convent located on one of the many streets of Paris, France. A taxi awaited her, to take her to the airport. In just a couple of hours, she would see him again. The only person in the world she was certain she loved. John Watson. She took one last look at the Eiffel Tower, one of the few things that she never grew tired painting. Good-bye, she thought as she clutched the locket around her throat and headed towards the taxi cab.

Sherlock was lying on the azure colored sofa in their flat. He was bored, as usual, and thought about shooting a couple more rounds at the wall with his gun. It was two in the morning, however, and he chuckled at the thought of Mrs. Hudson's wrath. He placed the hand gun on the table, next to his iPhone that stayed silent the entire day. He had hoped a murderer would call, an explosion would occur, something exciting. But, hey, not all days were fun. Suddenly, he heard quiet footsteps descending from the stairs. He recognized them as John's steps from the way each step creaked in the floor. John was speaking with someone. "What time would she be coming?" John hushed into the cellular device. Sherlock could tell John was waiting for him to fall asleep to make the call. But what could John, his best friend, not want to share with him? Sherlock closed his eyes and listened closely. " And how long would she stay? That long... No it's-its not a problem. I can't wait to see her. Thank you for your time." Sherlock heard the phone click and John sigh. John entered the room and sat in his chair, the one he always sat in across from Sherlock, next to the sofa. "How am I going to tell him?" John's voice was barely audible. "Queen of England coming for some tea, John?" John flinched when Sherlock spoke. "Jesus, Sherlock. I thought-" " That I was asleep, yes I know." Sherlock interrupted. "Well," John chuckled silently, "what don't you know?" "Who you were speaking with." John's smile faded. He put his hands on his lap and faced Sherlock. There was a long pause. "Sherlock... How... How would you feel if we had another person in the flat?" Silence. "Pardon?" Sherlock asked. "It would only be for a while-" "Who's the girl?" Sherlock's voice wavered. John ignored Sherlock's deduction. "I assume you were speaking with a guardian of some sort." said Sherlock. John said nothing. Sherlock sounded slightly irritated; John was trying to keep the call a secret. They never kept secrets from each other. John took a deep breath. "I was going to tell you when you woke up but...she's my niece, Sherlock. I know I haven't mentioned her much, but I love her dearly." John looked so distant, Sherlock noticed. John always seemed so strong, so brave. It was one of the things that Sherlock... loved about him. But at the moment, he looked vulnerable. "She's the only family I've got left." John looked at Sherlock with desperation in his eyes. Sherlock responded, "Well, the guardian's not a family member, so who is she staying with?" John was surprised that Sherlock had taken interest in this. He looked into Sherlock's- well, that was the thing. John could never tell what the color of Sherlock's eyes were. Some days, they were ocean blue. Others, forest green, a rainy day gray, and so on. John cleared his throat and focused on the subject. "She's been staying with nuns at a convent for about two years after her parents, my brother and his wife, died. The nuns planned a religious trip to Jerusalem; she can't go. She could have stayed with me all those years but..." Sherlock raised his hand to stop John. He didn't need him to go on. Obviously, John's doctor refused to let the child stay with him due to his post traumatic stress syndrome. "How long would she stay?" John remained silent. Sherlock gave him a look. "Don't give me that face." John mumbled but said nothing for a some time. "Six months." "SIX MONTHS!?-" Sherlock stammered. "Sherlock!" John shushed him. "You'll wake the neighbors!" "Oh, like I've _ever_ cared what the neighbors think of me." He said in a much lower voice "But six months John?" "I know it's a long time but she's-" "Very important to you, I know." John went silent. Sherlock almost sounded... jealous. Sherlock sighed. "She needs to stay out of my way and away from my work. No exceptions." John stood up, and started to walk slowly to his room, adjacent to Sherlock's. "Sherlock, this means the world to me. Thank you." Sherlock shrugged. "If she's another annoying teenage girl, I'm sending her back to the convent." he said, half-joking. John smiled and laid his hand on the doorknob. "As a matter of fact," he said, "she was the smartest freshman at her high school out of 3,000 other freshmen, with a GPA of 4.6." Sherlock's eyebrows rose and his mouth opened slightly. John just shrugged his shoulders as a smiled crept up on his lips, "Maybe you'll like her." And on that note, John shut the door, leaving Sherlock alone in the room. Questions ran through his mind. What would she be like? Would she be annoying? He hoped not. Sherlock walked to his room and laid down on his bed, finally feeling exhausted. As his eyelids began to close, he forgot to ask. What was her name?


	2. Chapter 2

"Went out to get groceries. She might be here before I return. Try not to be so... you. Haha. Her name is Alice by the way." -John

Sherlock set the note down as he took one last sip of his coffee. So that was the girl's name. Alice Watson. He sat up and left his breakfast on the table, not bothering to clean up. Moving to lay on the couch, he scratched his head in agitation. _Ugh_ he thought. How had he agreed to this? The sound of metal clashing together interrupted his thoughts. "For the hundredth time, Sherlock. I'm not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson had entered the room and began to clean up Sherlock's mess. She continued, "John told me all about your guest. She sounds lovely!" She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock as a smiled crept up on her lips. "You two could use a little feminine charm around here!" She gestured towards the dusty curtains and the stains on the floor. There was a knock on the door. _She's here_, Sherlock thought. "I'll get that, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson quickly left the room. Sherlock could here her little pink heels click against the wooden stairs as she descended each step. He sighed and picked up his violin. It was his don't-bother-me-I'm-thinking sign. As he moved his fingers with dexterity, he let his mind wander. _She means the world to me Sherlock_. Was this girl really that important to John? Deep in thought, Sherlock had not heard the girl enter the room. He stopped playing, turned around and faced the young girl.

And so the deduction began. Sherlock wasn't one to judge beauty but he could tell that she wasn't considered to be "pretty" in modern society. She wasn't necessarily ugly, however. She had unique features that were striking that Sherlock found... noticeable. Alice was rather slim and her body corresponded with a child's more than a woman's. He looked at her arms. Self-harm scars. She had stopped about a year ago, he deduced, because they were not as prominent as fresh cuts. The cuts were from some sort of trauma... but what?She had short hair chopped with layers that fell just below her ears. He looked up to her face and his heart skipped a beat. Her eyes, he thought, looked just like John's. Silver like the moon's reflection with a tint of blue. Under her eyes drooped a blackish color; "bags" due to lack of within a couple of seconds Sherlock could see all. Alice stepped forward and spoke. "Quelle belle melodie." Sherlock didn't speak French fluently but he understood enough. What a beautiful melody. Thinking of the scars on her arms, Sherlock wanted to confirm something. "You must be Alice." He said. "John's told me all about you." Sherlock outstretched his hand to shake hers. He noticed her hesitation when she took his hand and quickly withdrew. _Ah_, he thought, _so that's what it is_. "Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes..." She said, but not with a French accent as Sherlock would have presumed. No, she sounded British. But "Mr. Holmes?" No one had ever called him that and he found it both amusing and extremely odd. "Just Sherlock, if you would." He picked up his violin to resume. "I'm sorry to interrupt but, where's John?" she sounded worried. " He's out. Should be back soon." And with that, the conversation was over. Mrs. Hudson came in and put her hand on Alice's shoulder. "I'll show you to the guest room, sweetheart." Alice thanked Mrs. Hudson and followed her to the room.

John handed the money to the taxi driver and stepped out of the cab with grocery bags. He knocked on the door that read "221B Baker Street" with his free hand and waited for someone to answer. As usual, Mrs. Hudson opened the door and greeted John. "She came about fifteen minutes ago, John. I sent her to the guest room if that's ok." Mrs. Hudson had explained what happened while he was out. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He lowered his voice. "Did she meet Sherlock?" "Why, yes, she did. Not much for conversation, that girl but she seems lovely." John smiled and began to walk up the stairs when he saw her. "John!" She squealed. Before he could say anything, she ran down the stairs and embraced him with a hug. "Alice..." He hugged her back tightly and stroked her hair. He tried to think of the last time he saw her. Oh... he hadn't seen her since... "that" incident. John looked up and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway of their living room. Sherlock had many faces that John could name now. His least favorite was the "we both know what's going on face." This, however, was the "I need to speak with you" face. John saw Sherlock return to the room and heard the violin play. Alice had let go. John looked down and spoke to her. "Alice, you've grown." She smiled and hugged John again. "John," her voice croaked, " I've missed you so much! I've read your blog and Sherlock's too. I wanted to ask-" "Slow down, buddy. Are you hungry?" She shook her head but her stomach groaned loudly. Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Oh I've just made lunch dear, would you like some?"

Mrs. Hudson had made some for Sherlock as well but he refused. Instead, Lestrade had called to meet at the morgue. A murder suicide (they thought) with no note. Sherlock was beaming with joy. John was happy that Sherlock was preoccupied. It gave him some time to catch up with Alice.

"I'll be home at midnight. This one was quite simple actually." John read the text from Sherlock and headed into Alice's room. She had just climbed into bed. John sat down at the end of the bed. "How have you been sleeping lately?" She shrugged. "Fine." John narrowed his eyes. "Don't lie, Alice." She sighed and put her head in her hands. " I don't know why, John, but the images have returned. I haven't seen them in months but..." John understood. He had had those after the war; still does, but they've been rarer. He wondered why he loved Alice as much as he did. Maybe it was because she understood too. That was it. She had been broken as well. Although John had been healed by his days with Sherlock, Alice was still healing from the incident, and he could see it in her eyes. They were the same eyes that stared back at him in the mirror after he came back from Afghanistan. "They won't come tonight. I promise." He kissed her on the forehead and she closed her eyes, clinging onto the hope of what John said would be true.


	3. Chapter 3

Dammit, John thought. Not tonight. Tripping over the dirty clothes on the floor of his bedroom, John Watson ran to the kitchen, listening to the horrifying screams of his niece. "JOHN! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! JOHN!" He searched frantically in the kitchen for some cloth. Finally finding some, he poured ice cold water over it and hurried to Alice's room. Sherlock was standing in the hallway, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "What is it John?" He said quickly. John moved past Sherlock and thrust the door open. At the sight of Alice, John's heart missed a beat. She looked absolutely terrified. Her face, always tanned with a beautiful creamy color, was snow white. Her cheeks where wet with tears that shone in the light when Sherlock turned them on. Her hands tore at her auburn hair and the veins in her arms bulged at the grip. Having dealt with this before, John tried to pull her arms apart and placed the wet cloth on her forehead. "Alice," his voice croaked with sadness. "please, it's me. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay..." Alice found his arms and grasped them; as if she was suffocating and his arms were her oxygen. When her ear shattering cries eventually came to a stop, she put her fist in her mouth and bit into it. Sherlock stood in the archway of the door, staring awkwardly at the scene but said nothing. John looked up and mouthed 'I'm sorry.' Sherlock nodded but did not go back to his room. A moment of silence swept over the room and was broken when Alice spoke. "I'm... I'm..." Sherlock listened closely to Alice's words. Her voice was barely audible and was slurred. "I'm sorry... John... I'm sorry I'm a mess..." And with that she slumped into the arms wrapped around her. John laid her unconscious body in the bed and placed the blankets over her. Sherlock looked at his best friend; so full of sadness and sorrow. John was crying silently with small tears dropping from his eyelids. He wiped them away and faced Sherlock. It had been two weeks since Alice moved in and she hadn't had a nightmare. She stayed in her room most of the time and occasionally went out to the store with Sherlock and John to buy food for dinner. She never went with them on cases, however. Alice hadn't spoken much with Sherlock and seemed to avoid him. A man with his intelligence and height, John could understand that Sherlock would be intimidating to Alice. "You should go back to bed." He whispered to Sherlock. "It was-" " Alice suffers from trauma emotionally and mentally." Sherlock interrupted. "She was raped about three years ago; the year before her parents were murdered. She'll have nightmares often, but rarely they'll be worse than this one." John did not respond to the deduction. Stoking Alice's hair, he closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders. John took a deep breath and spoke. "She finds you intimidating. Although, after she was raped, all male adults spook her." John's voice cracked at the end of the sentence. "Except me, obviously." "Obviously..." Sherlock had noticed that Alice's hand was bleeding where she had bitten down. He knew, of course, what her past was the moment he laid eyes on her. He didn't, however, realize how damaged she was. Broken. Unmade. Shattered, like a puzzle missing pieces. Maybe that's why John sympathized with the child, he thought. Because they both understood what true pain was. "John. We need to talk about Alice. I think I can help her."  
Where am I? This thought ran through Alice's mind when she woke. It was the norm for humans to question where they where when they woke up in a room that was not their own. Ah, she thought, Sherlock and John's flat. Her window view, usually the Eiffel Tower, was now the London Eye. It was truly remarkable, the London Eye. An enormous Ferris wheel capable of holding twenty five people per cart. She'd done research in it, hoping to go on once she moved , it seemed like a hopeless dream when she remembered last night. I probably woke up the entire building, she thought miserably. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, she gathered her clothes and jumped in the shower. As she dried off she found a note:  
Out for breakfast. Sherlock's sleeping. And don't worry about last night. I love you. -John

The sound of a television was the first noise Sherlock heard when he woke. Alice was awake and John was out. The perfect time to talk. When he entered the living room, he caught sight of Alice's hazel hair resting on the top of the couch. She was watching the telly. Sherlock never cared much for TV, but he was curious as to what she was watching. A young man in the show was obviously in love with another young man named Castiel, he deduced. Dull. White light emanated from the screen, signifying it being turned off. Alice turned around and faced Sherlock. They were alone for the first time since they met. Standing up, she headed to the kitchen and grabbed a bowl and milk. "Morning," was all she John gone and the television off,there was nothing to distract Alice. Sherlock grabbed a chair and sat down on the far side from Alice at the table. "I'd like to talk to you." Munching on cereal, Alice remained silent. Sherlock continued. "About last night-" "I apologize for my sudden outbursts if that's what you wanted to hear. If you don't mind, I really would rather not talk about it." Sherlock was taken aback by her quick rejection. He then smirked to himself. She had the same stubborn set to her chin as John had when he was upset with Sherlock. He found it both annoying and adorable at same time. "While John has a post traumatic stress syndrome, your mind is mentally and emotionally stuck in the past. If you would be willing to listen to me, I could help you." The room's silence was broken only when the drops of water from the sink dripped onto the surface. Finally Alice spoke,"That's what ALL the therapists and doctors said, you know?" In a mimicking voice she repeated the lines she'd heard a thousand times. "It's not your fault. There are bad people out there. The world isn't perfect... You're not insane, you're just different!" She paused to take a deep breath. Sherlock let her continue. "They never gave a damn, Sherlock. Yeah, okay, I know I'm pretty fucked up kid. But nobody besides John ever understood me, and he was out in Afghanistan probably getting himself KILLED for all I knew at the time." She stopped abruptly when she realized tears started streaming down her face. Wiping them away forcefully, she went on in a much quieter voice. "Sherlock... do you understand?" The words hung in the air for quite some time. Sherlock looked down and nodded. "Yes..." She sighed and finished her cereal. She scolded herself as she walked to the sink to clean up. Great, you confided in a stranger practically. "If you would listen to me, Alice, I'd be most gracious. Please.. " Sherlock could see some of himself in Alice. She had been bullied at school for her gift, as was Sherlock throughout his life. He shook his head. Ignorant people were the worst. Alice, on the other hand, was shocked. In reading John's blog, Sherlock had seemed conceited, arrogant, and (frankly) an ass. But for the first time she really looked at him. Being so smart, so famous, where was his family? Parents? Friends? Alice could tell he was a child prodigy growing up like her with so many expectations. Maybe he really did understand. Taking a seat she asked, "Sherlock, would you tell me something?" Sherlock tilted his head. "Why do you care?" "I need my beauty sleep." At that, Alice actually laughed. She hadn't remembered the last time she did. "Well, in that case, enlighten me on how the man with the funny hat could help." Sherlock frowned when she mentioned the death frisbee. He made a mental note to kill John for posting it on the blog later. All jokes aside, Sherlock looked into the eyes that looked as striking as John's. "I can find the man who killed your parents."


	4. Chapter 4

Alice snapped back to reality. Trying to slow her heart rate down, she opened her eyes and looked up. Sherlock was staring at her, with his thousand-colored eyes, expecting details. "Dammit." She gasped. Cold sweat dripped from her neck and onto her back. John handed her a towel and put his small, yet sturdy hand on her slim shoulder for support. "I was so close to when _it_ happened this time." Saying nothing, Sherlock stared out the window. Rain was falling from the ashen sky and onto the window of their flat. Sherlock put his hands just below his nose in linear formation, signifying that he was deep in thought. These past two months, Sherlock had taught Alice how to access the deepest parts of her memories; he had helped her create a "mind palace." It was nowhere as near as complex as his, obviously, but she had confirmed that it helped finding the memories. On the night his best friend had mentioned her, John had been telling the truth; Alice really was something else. When Sherlock babbled on about a case, Alice listened attentively, and occasionally, gave her view on the case. Not only did she ask the right questions, she had also developed deduction skills from studying Sherlock's work and blog. Sherlock had never much associated much with the opposite sex, save Molly and Irene Adler, or an adolescent. Now he was living with a person who bore both traits. And _that_ he found interesting. It was the time to ask questions while the memory was still fresh in Alice's mind. "How far did you get this time? Give me the details, Alice." Alice slid slowly away from John and stood up to look out the window. The rain was so calming. It helped her concentrate, which was why today was the perfect day to really dig deep into the darkest pits of her memories. Placing her hand on the locket that clung to her throat, she reminisced about the day she had received it. The day of her birth, her mother had told her that her father had saved up euros to buy her a beautiful clockwork locket. She looked down at her ebony painted nails that closed over her necklace. If she focused, she could feel and hear the ticking of the clock inside the minuscule golden doors. Tick tock, tick tock. Alice always wore this necklace to remind herself that wasting time was not an option. Every second, every moment was precious. She had to be quick on her feet and have the ability to gather her vast intellect quickly. "Alice?" Sherlock inquired once more. She clutched the pale blue sofa and did not look at John or Sherlock when she spoke. "It was when I got lost. Really thick move on my part, standing out in the worst area of London, alone, at midnight." She scolded herself on this for what seemed like the millionth time. If she had stayed in the theater instead of running of to look for them- Well, no use thinking of what could have been. Although she constantly told herself this, Alice could never let go of the past, and it haunted her almost everyday. "My phone was dead, so I went to go look for them. And then well... Ah...yes. Suddenly... a hand..." Sherlock had begun to worry. This was the most important part. "Alice this is crucial. You have to try to fight the amnesia. I need something, anything. The color of his skin, a ring, his clothes-" "Sherlock we don't need to rush it." John interrupted. "Give her some space." Alice turned to face the men while she placed her hands over her eyes and sat down. "I appreciate the sentiment, John but its okay. I remembered something." John was surprised, but did not show it. When Alice was with Sherlock, her intelligence was revealed, like a sheet being stripped down from a new sculpture at an art show. He had asked Sherlock why he was so interested in helping Alice. Sherlock had shrugged and said, "I always enjoy a good case, John. And as a bonus, I immensely enjoy showing up the police." John could tell Sherlock had other motives. But what?Alice spoke with confidence, a tone John had not heard escape her lips in a very, very long time. "I remember his face. And get this. Bonus points. He had a name tag."

After Sherlock and John researched the man on the computer, they took a cabbie with Alice to the Novello Theater; a popular theater that showcased a variety of plays. On the computer, back at the flat, they looked up his name and immediately results appeared. Sherlock clicked the first option; a news article that read:

RAPIST ON THE RUN. MURDERER IS

ACCOMPLICE.

Last year, prodigy Alice Watson was raped while she was walking out of the Novello Theater. The rapist, yet to be found, has an accomplice. A man with the same last name (who was recently revealed as the brother) fled the crime scene of the murdering of Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Police officials have searched even the most secluded parts of England and have contacted other nations to beware of the convicts. London's finest detectives are working on the case, and have promised to bring the killer and rapist to justice.

"I assume that was before they discovered you," John whispered to Sherlock. Alice sat in the middle of the two, and John noticed that her head had fallen onto Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's face was unreadable. Several emotions and thoughts seemed to pass along his pale face: shock, annoyance, and... affection? For the long time John had known Sherlock, they had learned to communicate through looks and the blinking of the eyes. This, of course, was developed by Sherlock to use in important situations. For example, if one of them was being held hostage, could not speak, was tied down, etc. Apparently, this was important enough. Sherlock looked at John with the child's head sill laying on his shoulder. What do I do, John, she's LEANING on me, his face seemed to say. John laughed out loud, loud enough to wake Alice. Her stormy blue eyes were unveiled as her eyelids fluttered. "John...?" She muttered. She looked up into Sherlock's eyes as she remained on his shoulder. Sliding away from Sherlock's shoulder and onto John's much softer one, she spoke quickly, "I didn't mean to-" "Oh Alice, what an extraordinary creature you are." Sherlock interrupted. "You have successfully been the only thing to have ever drooled on my magnificent scarf." With disgust and much groaning, Sherlock took off his silk scarf and handed it to her. "You might as well keep it. It is the least precious of my scarves and you haven't exactly dressed in appropriate attire for the rain." Not knowing whether to take Sherlock's remark as a compliment or an insult, Alice took the scarf with gratitude as the cab came to a stop. John paid the cabbie and watched it grow smaller as it drove off into the distance. "Yeah," Alice muttered, "this was the place." They were in the alley that separated the Novello theater from the adjacent building. At the end of the alley was a brick wall about nine feet high; a dead end. Sherlock went off to study the area as Alice and John sat on the steps in front of the theater. A small breeze swept through Alice's hair. Tucking it behind her ear, she spoke. "He really gets off on this, doesn't he?" John seemed lost in thought. "Hm? Oh yes, he does." "And you do this with him? Why?" It was a question John often asked himself. Why does he associate himself with Sherlock Holmes? They had been through hell and back together these past couple of years and became best friends. But John always wondered... Was Sherlock really _just_ a friend? "You don't have to tell me, I was just curious. I'm happy for you John. You look happy and healthy again." As she said this she poked his stomach, which used to be deprived from food those awful months after the war. John smiled at Alice. It seemed as if her time with Sherlock and he had begun to heal her too. Sherlock crept up around the corner and walked towards his flatmates. "John, call Molly. I need her to retrieve records from Bart's Morgue." John stood up and took Alice's hand as she did as well. "Sure, she's there, but why?" Sherlock waved at a cab as it came to a stop. "I think the man who raped Alice is dead."


End file.
